Ellsworth (Bumpy) Johnson

Bumpy Johnson Before the Mobs’ take over of the numbers business in Harlem, when Madame St. Clair was at her height, she recruited a young man whose name to this day is respected and considered legend. His name: “Bumpy” Johnson! Ellsworth Raymond Johnson was born the eight and final child to Margaret Moultrie and William Johnson on October 31, 1905, in South Carolina. He came to New York at age 15 to live with his oldest sister in Brooklyn and attended Boys High School. The legend goes that he got his nickname as a result of “bumping” the other guys around on the basketball court. He was tough, so the nickname, “Bumpy” stuck. Bumpy was known for his dapper style, wearing the latest “vines” (slang for clothes) and always had a “knot”( a wad of money) the size of his fist. What established Bumpy Johnson, other than these outward trappings, was the fact he was fearless. He was also well known for his temper. He literally feared no man; black, white or indifferent. It was rumored he always carried both a knife and a gun, and had no problem using either one of them, depending on the occasion. It was Madame St. Clair who saw this quality in Bumpy and brought him into the Forty Thieves. He was her enforcer, pure and simple. And Bumpy got the job done. From the 1930’s to the 1960’s Bumpy Johnson, if provoked in any way, was a man to be reckoned with. Even when Dutch Shultz was in the process of taking over the numbers business in Harlem, Shultz had to approach Bumpy Johnson differently. They once had it out on 128th Street and Lenox Avenue, but that’s another story. Bumpy was given the highest position possible and became responsible for control of Schultz’s black numbers runners in Harlem and enforcing Mob policy here. It came to a point where if one wanted to buy a franchise to establish a numbers bank in Harlem, one went to Bumpy Johnson. For a fee, of course! When a dealer wanted to purchase a large quantity of drugs, it was Bumpy Johnson who saw to it. As a result, he became known by the Mob, as “the Persuader”, one who could settle things in the background, without matters reaching the press; which was to be avoided at all costs.Interestingly enough however, despite his fearless reputation, Bumpy Johnson had a humane side that only Harlemites knew. In fact, they referred to Bumpy as the “Robin Hood of Harlem”, for he often gave to Harlem’s poor by giving cash, donations, sponsored bus rides, gave block parties; paid for children’s college education. He was also known to paid rent for those who were down and out, and even had a talk with a landlord if that was required. This and more without much fanfare or publicity! It was his way of giving back. He was considered a “gentlemen, among gentlemen”; “a king among kings”; and “a killer among killers”. In the numbers and extortion business, Bumpy became a millionaire. Being the business man he was, he established the Palmetto Chemical Company, a roach-extermination concern, operating out of a cement factory at 2459 2nd Avenue, on the South West corner of 126th Street in Harlem. So, on those rare occasions, when asked his occupation, he’d reply he was an exterminator. Those in the know knew the word, “exterminator”, could read both ways. You just didn’t fool around with Bumpy. Bumpy served “time” during his career in Sing-Sing, Danbury, Levenworth, Atlanta, Danemora and Alcatraz prisons, for a total of a little more than 30 years, and was finally released in 1963. Despite his tough, forceful personality, and streaks of generosity, Bumpy Johnson was also a well read and cultured individual. While in prison he directed his energy, time and attention to philosophy, history and poetry among other things. Interestingly enough, several of his poems were published later on in literary reviews. Once living on Mount Morris Park at 2 West 120th Street, and finally at 470 Lenox Terrace in Harlem, Bumpy loved playing chess, reading Shakespeare, and listening to the classical music of Beethoven.On early Sunday morning of July 7, 1968, Bumpy Johnson, still a popular figure in Harlem, was in the famed Wells Restaurant on the corner of 132nd St. and Seventh Avenue, known for it’s “chicken and waffles”. Dining with an old friend, Junie Byrd, Bumpy suffered a heart seizure around 1:34am. Byrd, a waiter and others attempted to help him breathe, but he fell unconscious. Bumpy was rushed to Harlem Hospital where he arrived, DOA. He died at age 62 and was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery. The headline in the New York Amsterdam News read at the time: BUMPY’S DEATH MARKS END OF AN ERA. To this day, despite his notorious reputation, Bumpy Johnson’s name is still spoken of with respect.As the numbers game in Harlem made its way through the late 60’s up to the 80’s, prominent Bronx number banker, James Lawson was attempting to take the Harlem numbers game, legit. He felt it was time that numbers become legalized and wage a serious campaign by bringing this to the attention of the local politicians and state officials. James Lawson died however before the legalization of numbers, known now as the Lottery, became a reality. In 1978, New York State ran its first lottery. However, despite the legalization of the lottery numbers now run by and in control of the state of New York, playing the numbers game in Harlem from the looks of it, will be around for awhile. And, there are several reasons for it! The numbers game in Harlem today still employs thousands of people in the community. One can still play the numbers on credit; unheard of by the State of New York. Where New York State pays 500-to-1 on a three-digit hit; the numbers game, pays 600-to-1. If one were to “hit” the state lottery but lose ticket; it’s his or her loss. However, if one were to “hit” the three digit number in the streets of Harlem, the number runner, usually comes to the winner and pays them on the spot. Finally, unlike lotto, should one hit a number really big, they don’t have to share it with the tax man! So, until such time the New York State lottery provides the same services, playing the numbers game in Harlem is here to stay.Copyright 2004 Lloyd StrayhornEllsworth Raymond "Bumpy" Johnson (October 31, 1905 - July 7, 1968) was an American gangster in New York City's Harlem neighborhood in the early 20th century.Johnson was from Charleston, S.C. and moved to Harlem with his parents as a youth. He was given the nickname "Bumpy" because of a large bump on the back of his head.Johnson was an associate of mob boss Stephanie St. Clair.[2] He was one of the leading criminals in Harlem to fight an unsuccessful war against Dutch Schultz, who incorporated the city's organized crime into the Jewish and Italian mobs of the day. He was later hired as an enforcer by the Genovese crime family to protect Mafia operations in black neighborhoods against local criminals, and even met Charlie "Lucky" Luciano more than once during his time.Johnson was arrested more than 40 times and would eventually serve three prison terms for narcotics-related charges. Once in December 1965, Johnson staged a sit-down strike in a police station, refusing to leave, as a protest against their continued surveillance. He was charged with "refusal to leave a police station" but was acquitted by a judge.[3]Johnson died while dining at Wells Restaurant, New York, on the corner of 132nd St. and Seventh Avenue which is known for its fried chicken and waffles.[4] At the time of his death Johnson's driving license was suspended so he had his friend Junie Byrd as his driver.[4] Frank Lucas claimed to be with Johnson at his death, but Johnson's widow disputes this account and claims Lucas has exaggerated his relationship with Johnson.[5] She claims he died in the arms of his childhood friend, Junie Byrd - not Lucas.[4] At the time of his death, Johnson's case was pending for another narcotics violation that could have earned him a possible fourth prison term. He was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery. The headline in the New York Amsterdam News read at the time: BUMPY’S DEATH MARKS END OF AN ERATimes were hard for black people, not only in Harlem but throughout the nation. Race riots and labor riots were erupting everywhere. Racism was the rule and malcontent was the order of the day. In the midst of these conflicts, the nation was entering into the throes of Prohibition. On January 20, 1920, Congress passed the 18th Amendment to the Constitution, banning the sale of alcoholic beverages. Harlem establishments that depended on the sale of alcohol were forced out of business, as were others across the nation. These disrupting events marked the beginning of the Roaring Twenties. Ellsworth Raymond "Bumpy" Johnson (1906–1968) was an African-American gangster in Harlem in the early 20th century. He was from Charleston, S.C. and moved to Harlem with his parents as a small boy. He was given the nickname "Bumpy" because of a large bump on the back of his head.Bumpy Johnson, was a former associate of mob boss Stephanie St. Clair. He was later hired as an enforcer by the Genovese crime family to protect Mafia operations in Black neighborhoods against local Harlem criminals. Johnson was arrested more than forty times and would eventually serve three prison terms for narcotics-related charges before dying of a heart attack in 1968 while at a Harlem night club. At the time of his death, his case was pending for another narcotics violation that could have earned him a possible fourth prison term. While in prison Johnson studied philosophy and history. Johnson also wrote poetry, some of which was later published during the Harlem Renaissance. Bumpy Johnson was mentor to future drug kingpin Frank Lucas, making Lucas his driver.[1]Once in December 1965, Johnson staged a sit-down strike in a police station, refusing to leave, as a protest against their continued surveillance. He was charged with "refusal to leave a police station" but was acquitted by a sympathetic judge.[2]The gang war that broke out in Harlem was short-lived. Harlem's numbers operators were not prepared for an extended turf war, or the ruthlessness and violence inflicted by the mob. Many of them were badly beaten and some were even murdered by the mob's musclemen. It has been estimated that more than 40 murders and six kidnappings came on the heels of this turf war. Harlem's black numbers runners began to disappear off the streets and its policy bankers began to mysteriously retire. By late 1928, only a little more than 20 policy banks remained out of 40. Dutch SchultzAccording to longtime Harlem residents, it made sense to pay off Tammany Hall for protection and to not make waves over losing any business. Dutch Schultz was now "King of Harlem Bankers" and ruled with an iron fist. "You worked for Schultz or you didn't work at all," said a black numbers runner employed during that time. All of the work was done by the remaining black bankers, with little recompense, while the white mobsters took most of the money. They utilized not only violence but their political power and police connections to achieve the goal of corralling the numbers racket. Bub Hewlett, the black gunman who had fought against Bumpy, was hired by Dutch Schultz to strong-arm the black bankers and their runners into joining his numbers syndicate. Hewlett proved to be very ruthless. Many who refused to join with Schultz were severely beaten, cut, and shot. All of the black bankers and runners who managed to survive this orchestrated onslaught ended up as middlemen for the mob. Bankers who could not cover large hits received loans from the Mob for extremely high interest rates and a share of their operations.One of the few surviving bankers was Casper Holstein. He stood up against all Mob offers and attempts to take over his numbers business. On September 23, 1928, while walking from his apartment to his waiting limousine, he was attacked, blindfolded and kidnapped by five white mobsters. Holstein claimed two women were also involved. He was held for a $50,000 ransom. Supposedly, Holstein made a phone call to Harlem's Monarch Lodge of Negro Elks, where he served as the Exalted Ruler, and said, "Tell the police to get out of this case. All they will get will be my dead body."Only the week before, Holstein was seen betting more than $30,000 on the races at Belmont Park. It was the first time in America that an affluent black person was kidnapped. It made headlines across the nation. Three days later, The New York Times reported, "Casper Holstein, wealthy overlord of the Negro sporting world, came home to Harlem early today. His return was as mysterious as his disappearance just after midnight on Thursday."Holstein never admitted a ransom had been paid. He only said that the kidnappers felt he was getting a "raw deal," and released him with three dollars for taxi fare. The experience shook-up Holstein and he was never quite the same. He cut back on his banking operations and began to keep a lower profile, eventually dropping out of the numbers business. Several years later, Holstein's life took another strange turn. He was arrested on a Federal warrant from the Samuel Seabury Commission for illegal gambling and policy violations. Repeatedly claiming that he was framed, Holstein was sentenced to prison, where he spent almost a year. When he returned to Harlem the Mob had taken over all of his business and he was broke. Casper Holstein never again operated in the numbers game. Stephanie "Queenie" St. ClairBumpy Johnson and Queenie St. Clair refused to accept any Mob offers and tried to fight off being taken over, but the intimidation and extreme violence began to take its toll on them. Queenie complained to authorities about the police harassing her, despite the fact she was paying them protection money. Dissatisfied with their unsympathetic response, she ran advertisements in Harlem's newspapers, charging the police with corruption. The corrupt authorities retaliated by arresting her on framed charges and imprisoning her for eight months in a workhouse for women. When Queenie was released, she immediately retaliated by testifying before the Seabury Commission about her numbers operations and her payoffs to the police for the protection of her employees. This brought about the Commission's suspension of more than a dozen involved officers. To many, it only seemed that these officers were scapegoats in the war on organized crime.Realizing that he and Queenie were in a no win situation, Bumpy went to Schultz and Luciano and struck a deal. They gave him the highest-ranking position they could, for a black man. He became responsible for control of their black numbers runners and the enforcing of Mob policies in the Harlem community. Bumpy went to Queenie and tried, unsuccessfully, to convince her to give in to the Mob. He continued to do all he could to protect her and her operations.Queenie was determined to resist Mob takeover, despite knowing it was only a matter of time before the mob would get to her. She even tried to get other black bankers and runners to join her in the fight against mob takeovers. But they were either too afraid or worn down by the effects of violence and believed they could not fight the Mob's political and legal powers. None of them agreed to stand with Queenie against them.One day, Bumpy informed Queenie that the "word on the streets" was that she was a marked woman. He told her she should "lay low," because the Mob wanted her dead. Queenie became a recluse, not daring to appear out in public and trying to run her operations through Bumpy and her other workers. Tales passed down over the years say that the mob's search for Queenie was so intense that on one occasion, Bumpy had to help her to hide in a coal bin beneath a mound of coal. He had done his best to protectQueenie, but they both knew that it could not go on. Finally Bumpy convinced her to take whatever deal the Mob offered, in order to stay alive and in business. She sent Bumpy to Schultz to tell him she would cooperate. Schultz agreed to let her continue running her numbers bank, in exchange for a majority share and his allowing her to live. Queenie never stopped hating Dutch Schultz.Bumpy became an important middleman for the Mob's Harlem domain. Crime was still his livelihood and he was eager to learn all he could about white organized gangs. According to Ianni, "When a black wanted to buy a franchise to establish a numbers bank, he went to Bumpy Johnson, who arranged it for a fee. When a black drug dealer wanted to buy a large quantity of drugs, Johnson arranged the sale. Italian racketeers knew him as a "persuader," one who could settle underworld quarrels before disputes erupted into violence, and into the publicity they naturally wished to avoid." It wasn’t unusual for a gunshot victim to be wheeled into the operating room of Sydenham Hospital in Harlem in 1952. Especially in the wee hours of the morning when club hoppers with too much to drink took their nine-to-five frustrations out on whoever was available.But this was no usual gunshot victim. This was my husband, Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson.The man who, according to legend, almost single-handedly fought the infamous Jewish hoodlum Dutch Schultz when that notorious madman tried to take over the Harlem numbers rackets. The man who was as well-known for his charity to children as for his deadly temper when he was crossed by other gangsters. The man who was the undisputed King of the Harlem Underworld. The man to whom I’d been married only three years. And from the looks of things, the 45-year-old man who was about to take his last breath.“Bumpy,” Detective Philip Klieger yelled as he trotted alongside the gurney towing the bloodied half-conscious man, “You know you’re not going to make it. Tell me who shot you so we can bring him to justice.”But see, my husband lived by the gangster code. Bumpy opened his eyes and momentarily focused on the detective, and his slackened lips curled into a snarl. “A man can only die once, and dead men make no excuses,” he managed to get out before falling into full unconsciousness.“Lord,” screamed a heavily-painted woman with a crimson red dress two sizes too tight and about six inches too short. “That boy done killed Bumpy.”‘That boy, ’ I found out later, was 31-year-old Everett Loving; also known as Robert “Hawk” Hawkins, a brash young gambler from Ashville, North Carolina who fancied himself a pimp, and was considered simply a joke by the Harlem hustlers.“The kid was nothing but a punk,” legendary card shark Finley Hoskins would say later. “No one ever paid him no mind. No one ever had no reason to.”But in June 1952, the tall dark-skinned Hawk was determined to make someone take himself seriously. He desperately wanted to be accepted by the Harlem hustlers whose number he so urgently wanted to join. He wanted to impress them. He needed to make a name for himself.For those of you who don’t know, New York bars and clubs are open until 4 a.m., but for serious partiers, that’s still way too early to go home. These folks would then head for the illegally run After-Hour joints. True, there were some joints that you had to knock on the door and say “Joe, sent me,” or give some kind of password, but many others operated in plain view. As long as the owners made their weekly donations to the police no one bothered them. The Vets Club, which was located at 122nd Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, was owned by John Levy – the abusive boyfriend/manager of jazz great Billie Holiday, and Vincent Nelson – one of the most successful pimps in Harlem. By 3 a.m. the joint would be jumping and the folks would be stomping. There was always a good time and a good crowd at The Vets.On this particular night jazz great Sarah Vaughn was there sipping champagne, along with the Brown Twins, a popular jazz duo. The gorgeous vamp Margherite Chapman, who would later marry baseball slugger Willie Mays (she was a lot older than him, but she lied to him about her age.) was there also, along with a couple of black Hollywood starlets who wished they looked as good as Margherite, and R&B diva Dinah Washington was holding court to her usual entourage of ten or twelve.It was about 5:30 a.m. when the already half-drunk, Hawk sauntered over to the bar and ordered a scotch, then proceeded to loudly talk about his take for the night – the trick money his “bitches” had turned over to him after a night of whoring.“Man, why don’t you cool out? Can’t you see there’s ladies in here? Show some respect,” Bumpy said irritably as he clinked the ice in his watered down glass of ginger ale. As bad as Bumpy was, he didn’t smoke or drink, and he didn’t like men cursing around women they didn’t know.To be honest, I don’t believe Hawk even looked up to see that it was Bumpy, because he would have been stupid to say what he said next. “Nigger, who the fuck is you to tell me to cool out?” he yelled in his heavy southern accent.Bumpy looked him up and down and then said quietly, “I’m about to be your worst nightmare. Now haul your behind outta here before someone has to carry you out.”This time Hawk did look up before saying anything else, and that’s when he realized who it was he’d been addressing. Intoxicated, but not stupid, Hawk turned to leave but stumbled over a chair on the way out. Someone snickered and Hawk angrily whirled around to say something, but Bumpy looked at him with an icy stare and said, “You still here?”Ego bruised, Hawk left. Bumpy bought a round of drinks for the ladies as an apology for the rudeness for the younger man, and the merriment continued as it had been before the intrusion.An hour later most of the party-goers were gone, and my husband was standing at the bar talking to the bartender, and the club owners John Levy and Vincent Nelson when he suddenly felt a nudge on his shoulder and turned around. Hawk, had topped off the scotch he’d already imbibed with cheap wine, and armed with liquid courage and a borrowed revolver he had come back to seek his revenge.“What you got to say now, nigger?” he screamed as he shakily pointed the gun at Bumpy’s head. “You so fucking bad, what you gotta say now?”Bumpy was out on bail and carried no knife or gun, and because he was backed up against the bar, there was no way he could escape.“Man, why don’t you go home and sleep it off?” Bumpy said calmly as he stretched his hand out behind him, hoping to grasp something on the bar that he could use as a weapon. “You were wrong and you got called out on it. It’s over now.”“Ain’t shit over,” Hawk yelled as he stepped back and tightened his finger on the trigger to take his shot. But just then Bumpy managed to grab a potted plant and smashed it into the side of Hawk’s face. It was enough to throw off Hawk’s aim, and the bullet meant for Bumpy’s head slammed into the right side of his chest instead. Bumpy slumped to the floor – eyes closed -- and for a moment Hawk stood over him as if just realizing what he’d done. But when Bumpy reopened his eyes, and Hawk realized he was still alive, Hawk flew out the door.“Bumpy, are you alright?” the bartender asked as he, Vince, and Levy rushed over to the fallen man.“I’m fine,” Bumpy said in a weak and shaky voice. “Just help me to my feet.”Levy and the bartender half-carried Bumpy to Vince’s car, and they sped off to Sydenham Hospital on 124th Street and Manhattan Avenue. .As Vince helped Bumpy up the stairs another gambler and pimp, Gershwin Miles, called from across the street. “Bumpy is that you? You alright, man?”“Naw, man. I’ve been shot,” Bumpy managed to yell back to his friend.No lie, it seemed like all of Harlem must have been listening because within ten minutes the hospital was filled with people trying to see what had happened to Bumpy.I was home asleep when Vincent called me to tell me what happened. I almost had a heart attack right there in bed when he said, “Mayme, you’d better hurry. The doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”Bumpy and I had only been married three years, and while I knew there was always a chance he’d get hurt in his line of work, somehow it never occurred to me that he might be killed and I would be a widow. Call me naïve. I wanted to break down in tears, but I didn’t have time. My man was in trouble, and I had to get to him as soon as possible – I couldn’t waste any time going into hysterics. We were living at 2 West 120th Street on the third floor at the time, and Walter Clark – who owned the then famous but now defunct Uncle Walter’s Sausage – lived on the sixth floor. I hurriedly called his wife, Willa Mae, and asked her to rush downstairs to take care of Bumpy’s 2-year-old granddaughter, Margaret, then I got dressed up and was downstairs in less than five minutes. I hadn’t thought about how I would get to the hospital, but I needn’t have worried, Vince was already outside the building in his long black Cadillac. He must have sped through every single red light to make it there that fast. I hopped in the car, and it seemed it was only a few minutes later that we were at Sydenham Hospital.We pulled up in front of the hospital and I believe I actually jumped out the car before Vince even had a chance to put it in park. As I ran up the steps I heard someone call out, “Mayme! Let him know I’m here but I can’t come in.” I looked around and saw George Iser peeking out from the bushes. “There’s cops in there and I still got warrants on me,” he explained, “But I just wanna make sure Bumpy’s okay. Let him know I’m out here.”I quickly nodded before walking into the hospital. The lobby was packed with people; it seemed like hundreds of people. There were people there in their night clubbing clothes, men there with pants pulled on over their pajamas, women with coats thrown over their nightgowns, and detectives, doctors and nurses all over the place. It was just ridiculous. I actually had to push my way in.Hoss Steele, Junie Byrd, Nat Pettigrew, Finley Hoskins, John Levy and Georgie Rose – all of whom had known Bumpy from when he first moved to Harlem as a teenager – were already there. Nat gave a yell when he saw me, and he and Vince shoved people out the way to get me to the doctor so I could sign the papers for them to operate. It was only then that I saw Bumpy, as they were wheeling him into the operating room. There were two detectives running alongside the gurney, and I had to push them aside to get to my husband. I almost fainted when I looked at him – his beautiful chocolate complexion was an ashen gray, and his beautiful almond-shaped brown eyes were glazed, and only half-open. I fought back a sob as I reached for his hand and gave a reassuring squeeze. To my delight he was able to give a weak squeeze back in return. It restrengthened me.“Will you get the hell out of here?” I screamed at the detectives who now had the nerve to try and push me out the way to continue questioning Bumpy.“You heard, Mrs. Johnson,” I heard a voice behind me say. “Please get out the way so we can get this man into the operating room.” I turned around and saw Dr. Harold Wardrow, a well-known black surgeon, standing there with a scowl on his face.The operation took six hours, and when it was over Dr. Wardrow came over and told me, “Mrs. Johnson. Had the bullet been one one-tenth of an inch to the left it would have pierced his heart and we wouldn’t be here speaking now because your husband would be dead. And to be honest, we’ve done all we can, but it’ll still be touch and go for the next few days. I suggest that you pray for your husband’s survival.”I immediately sunk to my knees there in the hospital waiting room, clasped my hands together, and looked up toward heaven.“Dear Lord,” I said. “I know that my husband hasn’t always been the most upright citizen, but he’s always been an upright man. And I love him very much, Dear Lord. Please don’t take Bumpy away from me.”I stayed on my knees for another fifteen minutes sending up prayer after prayer. When I got up and turned to face Hoss Steele, Nat Pettigrew, Junie Byrd, Vince Nelson, John Levy, Ricky Williams and George Rose I was surprised and touched to see tears in their eyes – these men were considered to be some of the toughest men in Harlem, and they were on the verge of breaking down with emotion. Suddenly Ricky cleared his throat and spoke. “Look, the doctors done all they could, and Mayme got the God thing in hand, let’s go get out in the street and kill that punk motherfucka Hawk.”Without another word they all walked out the hospital and got in their cars and sped off. They never did find Hawk, though. We found out later that once he ran out the Vets Club he got in his car and drove to Albany, New York and hid out there before finally high-tailing it back to North Carolina.Bumpy’s operation was on Monday, but by the time the Amsterdam News – a well-known African-American newspaper in New York which still operates today – hit the stands on Thursday, he was still in a coma. Their headlines screamed “Bumpy Johnson Near Death After Being Shot During After Hours Spot Brawl.”The nuns at the Sisters of Handmaid of Mary lit candles and prayed for his recovery. Harlem luminaries called the hospital every hour to check on his prognosis. And Harlem sporting men and women gathered together in their familiar haunts while they awaited word on the condition of their unofficial leader.Al Capone may have ruled Chicago. Lucky Luciano may have run most of New York City. But, when it came to Harlem, the man in charge was my man, Bumpy Johnson.He was called an old-fashioned gentleman. He was called a pimp. A philanthropist and a thief. A scholar and a thug. A man who admonished children to stay in school, and a man who District Attorney William O’Brien once said was the most dangerous man in New York.Bumpy was a man whose contradictions are still the root of many an argument in Harlem. But there is one thing on which everybody could agree – in his lifetime, Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson was “the man” in Harlem.If you wanted to do anything in Harlem, anything at all, you’d better stop and see Bumpy because he ran the place. Want to open a number spot on the Avenue? Go see Bumpy. Thinking about converting your brownstone into a speakeasy? Check with Bumpy first.The police knew it – they came to him to negotiate peace between young street gangs. The politicians knew it – they counted on him to deliver votes on Election Day. Even the Italian and Jewish syndicate knew it, although they had to find out the hard way. When they decided to move on the Harlem numbers racket, Bumpy, only 25, at the time, sprang into action. With only a handful of loyal men behind him, Bumpy waged a successful guerilla war, forcing the white mobsters to finally come to terms with “that crazy nigger.” Even Lucky Luciano, the head of the organized crime in New York City, publicly gave Bumpy his due – Black Harlem only recognized one crime boss, and that was Bumpy Johnson.Bumpy was willing to use his fists and his guns to get what he wanted, but he was just as willing to use his money to help Harlemites in need.If he saw a family’s furniture being moved out in the street because they couldn’t pay the landlord –not an uncommon sight in Depression-era Harlem – he would reach into his pocket and peel off a few large bills from the huge wad he carried, and hand it to the evictors to pay off the back rent.Each year Bumpy personally threw huge Christmas parties at the Rhythm Club on Seventh Avenue and spent thousands of dollars on those economically-deprived children Santa Claus always seemed to forget.Yes, Bumpy may have been a criminal, but he was a criminal with a social conscience. In this community that felt exploited and abused by both the government and the white criminal element, Bumpy was an underworld leader who took from the people, but at least gave something back.Me? I don’t know. I knew who and what Bumpy was when I met him, and I never did intend to fall in love with him, but I did. And I fell hard.